


You, Who Never Arrived

by karavan (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Prostitution, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25894321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/karavan
Summary: A rentboy encounters Dirk Strider. What follows is the creepiest call-out of his life.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Dave Strider, Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56





	You, Who Never Arrived

**Author's Note:**

> hi, it's me! back with another installment of shit no one asked for, ever 
> 
> mind the tags! title taken from a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke. [x](https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/you-who-never-arrived/)

You knock on the apartment door a second time and glance around, double-checking the hall is still deserted. You're uneasy about this; you can't help it. It's a shitty part of town (normally, you'd dodge even taking a booking out here if you could avoid it) but tonight you need the cash and most times, a little risk pays off. Granted, the few times it doesn't ends with the cops, or you at the ER, but you've got a pocket full of pepper spray if shit starts to head south and anyway, you're pretty decent at sniffing out a guy who's dangerous and not just a freak. 

You're still undecided on this one, though you're confident you'll have his number down within a couple minutes of meeting him. Over text he's a little sketch, but not in a way that sends any particular alarm bells ringing. You figure he's just married, or cheating on his spouse. They usually are. 

You've been snapping with him for days and still, you know virtually nothing about this guy, haven't even seen his face or most of his body. You've seen his hands — and honestly, they're pretty nice hands; big, strong-looking, clean fingernails — and the outline of a thick boner through his boxers, but that's about it. 

No, he's way more interested in _you_. He's skilled at dodging nearly all your questions about _him_ but you've gleaned a couple small things anyway: He's into your more tasteful nudes; doesn't seem to like it if you act too forward or slutty in conversation. He's most into the snaps of your legs and butt; mirror selfies where you crop your head but hitch your shirt up, exposing your bare chest, hips and navel.

He's a man of few words and either doesn't get your sense of humor, or just doesn't care for it. Whenever you try to get playful with him he shuts you down fast but that's fine, too. If he wants to get straight down to business then send you packing, it's all the same to you as long as he pays first. 

Footsteps advance towards the door and you spit your gum out quick, straighten up and run a palm over your mess of hair. 

When the door swings open your forced smile quickly evaporates, as if slapped away by force. You're not sure what you were expecting but it sure wasn't _this_. 

It's one of the few moments in your life you're genuinely lost for words. This guy? Not one of your regular johns. He's not old, ugly, or otherwise off-putting.

He's _hot_. The kind of hot who could take a stroll down the nearest street and find someone willing to bang him for free, who'd be glad to do it. This guy's fit as fuck — broad, hard and muscular in a way that takes real discipline to achieve — and towers over you at what must be at least 6'2". He's also the kind of handsome not even a crooked nose can steal from. 

He's wearing nothing but black jeans and a baseball cap, strands of straw-colored hair spilling out the sides. You stop ogling his bare chest — he doesn't like desperate-for-cock, you remember that — and squint down at your phone, stuttering out his lengthy screenname. He acknowledges you with a slight up-down tilt of his head then drains his can of Bud Light. 

So...not a mistake, then. Nope, this is definitely your guy. 

He steps away from the door and you follow him inside the apartment without waiting for his invitation. He allows you to close the door behind you, which is an encouraging sign. It's not like he wants to lock you in or anything. 

He heads straight for the fridge and you take a moment to look around. Your first impression of the apartment is 'oh, so that's the catch. Hot but smack bang in the middle of some mental health crisis'. You won't even bother checking his hand for a ring, or the tell-tale tan-line of one recently removed, because this dude clearly isn't married to anybody.

It's not the filthiest place you've seen by far but god damn is it a mess, not to mention super weird. Rumpled clothes litter the floor; there's an alarming stack of empty pizza boxes by the blue futon and scattered beer cans for days. An assortment of trippy posters decorate the grubby walls and a bunch of mixing equipment, propped up on cinderblocks, is parked in the corner of the room. Maybe he's a DJ or something. You're about to ask him about it when he says, "Sit down."

"Oh. Yeah, sure." With a slight grimace you shove a pile of GameBro magazines to the side to make some space. It'd probably be less weird if they were porn. 

You rest your hands in your lap while you wait on him, picking at the edges of your thumbnail. The TV doesn't make for much of a distraction; he's got the volume down so low you can barely hear it. The futon creaks when he sits down next to you and offers you a beer. You accept it without comment, even though you don't drink with clients, and lift the tab, taking the barest of sips. 

"Thanks," you say, resting the can on your knee. 

"S'all good." He stretches his arm out across the back of the futon, the fine hairs of his forearm tickling the sensitive skin of your neck. You budge in so that you're pressed right up to him. He seems to like that because a moment later a heavy hand comes to rest atop your head. He cards his fingers through your hair, almost like he's petting you. You rest your palm on his thigh, squeezing gently. You anticipate him shoving your head down to his crotch any second now and you're ready for it but the moment is slow to arrive.

You massage along the inside of his leg to let him know you're good to go, just in case he's in need of subtle encouragement. He's _not_ good to go, apparently, because he picks up his phone and starts scrolling. If you crane your head around just so you can see he's trolling someone's Instagram feed. It appears to be comprised of mostly black and white images but you don't gawk long enough to pick out any faces. 

You bring your hand up to his crotch, rub at his zipper to try to get things moving, but he slaps your wrist away with a rumbly "no" and that's that. You pull right back — if he wants to waste his hour, you don't mind it so much. There are worse things in this business than half-hearted cuddling on some random's couch. 

An uneventful twenty minutes passes. You've been discreet about checking your watch, but it's moving slow like molasses. You ask him if he wants to kiss: He doesn't. Apparently he just wants someone next to him while he gets lit and smokes a joint. Kind of sad, 'cause the guy's obviously in the midst of some mental break, but whatever. It's all the same to you until your leg starts to cramp from lack of movement and you're forced to politely excuse yourself to the bathroom.

He doesn't offer to help you find your way but the apartment is small so it's easy enough. There's two doors along the poorly-lit hallway to choose from and the first one you try happens to be the right one.

You wince, at first from the bright lights and then the musty smell. You step over three damp towels, probably sporing mould, on your way to the vanity. You shake both your legs out then turn on the faucet, splashing your face with cold water. As you're patting it dry with the hem of your tank you notice a pair of aviator sunglasses by the sink. You pick them up for a better look then try them on, because what the hell. You study your reflection, pose a little, then shake your head, setting them back down when you don't like the way they look on your face.

You're wiping your hands on your jeans when a metallic glint to your left catches your eye. You do a double-take at the bathtub then mumble, "What the fuck," out loud. A closer inspection confirms that yep, there's two actual swords in the bathtub. One of them has a suspicious brownish stain along the tip of the blade and you step back in horror, almost tripping over the shower-curtain. 

Your growing sense of ill-ease only heightens when you open the door to find him standing there, elbow braced against the frame. 

Your hand flies to your chest and you blurt out, "I didn't touch anything! Shit." You blow out a breath and try to get ahold of yourself. "I mean— I'm sorry, you just startled me." You laugh it off, don't want him to know how nervous he makes you. Some guys really get off on your fear. If you give it to them it only feeds into their darkest tendencies. 

He's giving you a look now, one you can't easily read. You don't like that. You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his gaze, which sweeps from your toes up to the top of your head. 

You reach out to touch him, skittering your fingertips along his side. "You okay?" You're trying to keep things casual, unbothered, though you're not too confident you're making that work.

He offers his hand to you, says, "C'mon, baby boy," and you take it, follow him, because it's too late to dip out now. 

* * *

He leads you to the second room, which turns out to be the bedroom. Finally. You're more than ready to end this and get the fuck out of here. 

It's tidier in here than out in the living room, but not by much. Straight away you notice the unmade bed; dirty plates are stacked up by the computer desk and a tallboy pushed against one wall has all its drawers hanging open, clothes spilling out, like someone packed in a hurry. 

Your john heads straight for it and starts rifling for something. 

You take a look around while he's occupied, mostly trying to get a sense for hidden dangers, or emergency exits. It's not the cookie tin on the floor that says 'Dave' in big, colorful, blocky letters that jumps out at you first. It's not the bizarre posters, or the dusty turntables in the corner. It's the photos strung up along a fishing line that runs from one corner of the room to the other.

Photos (selfies, you think), and they're all of the same boy. Slight build, fair complexion, unruly blond hair that sticks up at the back. Around your age, give or take a couple years. You can't see his eyes, because he's wearing aviators in every single picture, but you don't need to see them in order to make the connection. 

He looks like _you_ , at least in the general sense. Similar size and stature — close enough you could probably wear each other's clothes — and your hair is an almost identical shade of pale blond. You're tanner than he is, and his lips are a little pinker, fuller, than yours but the similarities remain uncanny.

You get what's happening here, though it would have been nice if he'd gave you a heads-up first. _Dave_ must be the jailbait boyfriend who left him, got him into this state. You're just here to be the poor man's stand-in to a guy who's pining for his ex.

He must find what he's looking for, because he turns around and throws something at you. You catch it without thinking then look down to examine what you've caught. A soft red hoodie. You pull it straight over your head without being directed to do so; you know now what he wants. 

His whole demeanor changes the instant your clothing does. There's purpose in the way he advances on you now, real hunger in his stare, like he's seeing you for the first time. 

You bite your lip and shyly avert your gaze, hamming up the innocent little twink act because you're confident now that you get this guy; you know what he wants, what he likes. Play your cards right and you'll be out of here in less than ten minutes. 

You let him back you up against the door, wind your arms around his waist and draw him in close. He cups your face between warm, calloused hands; bends to kiss you. His lips linger on yours at first, testing you, maybe even trying to tease. You let him take the lead, because you know that's what turns him on. 

When he kisses you it's not awful; it's maybe even kind of nice. There's a stirring in your stomach, a couple weak butterflies perhaps, but you stop short of actually enjoying it when you're not supposed to. The fact that he's hot shouldn't change anything, shouldn't warrant any special treatment, but it totally does and you can't always control the way your body responds. 

You're relieved when his hand comes up to grip your head, applying an intense amount of pressure that forces you to your knees. You make easy work of his belt buckle, quickly pulling it open, and draw the zipper down on his jeans. He's practically humping your face by the time you free his hard cock from his boxers and drag your lips along the shaft, swirl your tongue around the leaking head.

You take a moment to be grateful that he's clean and smells decent. That always helps things along. You don't look up at him when you tighten your lips around him — that might spoil the illusion that _Dave_ is sucking him off — just keep your head bowed and relax the muscles of your throat so you can swallow, take him in as deep as you're able.

He's cussing and pulling on your hair in no time at all, saying "ah", "fuck", and "shit" every five or ten seconds, followed by a flattering: "You're so good on that dick". You bob your head up and down on his cock, making gentle humming noises to get him off faster — no moaning or overly slutty moves like spitting, gagging, slurping or drooling. You've almost brought him to the edge — you can tell by how his cock twitches; how hard he's tugging at your hair — when he jerks your head back and forces you to look up at him. 

He's breathing heavy, eyes dark with lust as he peers down at you. 

"Get on the bed."

Change of plans, then. You were prepared to do anal anyway, so it's no big deal. 

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and quickly comply, clambering to your feet and over to the unmade bed. You get on your hands and knees, bouncing slightly on the mattress, and he's behind you a moment later, his fingers pulling at the waistband of your jeans. You help him tug them down around your knees and push back against him, offering your ass up, waiting for him to take what he wants. 

It's eerily silent for a moment, like he's just _staring_ at you. He leans heavily over you, so that you can feel his erection digging into your ass, and rests his cheek between your shoulderblades.

"You think you can run from me?" he murmurs into the fabric of the hoodie, inhaling deeply. "You think I won't find you?"

You freeze beneath him, unsure how to respond to this new development. Most of the time when a john wants to roleplay you discuss it with him first and it's pretty straightfoward from there. Generally they're just kinky and not using you to exorcise some emotional demon, but this guy? 

You definitely didn't sign up for any of this shit. You'd have charged him extra. 

"Dave..."

You cringe and try to weigh your options here. He does know you're not actually Dave, right?

You ponder saying something that'll probably piss him off but you're close — so close — to finishing him, it's probably in your best interest to play along. 

You _could_ try to comfort, reassure him. Most men are soft if you just tell them what they want to hear. 

"No," you whisper back, trying to sound gentle, contrite. "I mean, I wont. I'm sorry, I'm here. I'm not leaving you, I promise. I'm yours."

Your gamble pays off. He relaxes against you, exhales a shaky breath through his nose and kisses the back of your neck. Relief floods through you when you hear the sound of the condom wrapper tearing — you didn't want to deal with an argument about rubbers with this guy on top of everything else — and feel slick fingers prodding at your hole. 

He's not cruel with you, but he's not real gentle either. Thirty seconds of fingering is all you get before he's ramming it into you, gripping your hips hard enough they'll bruise, his fingernails digging into your sensitive flesh.

"You're mine," he growls, a little breathless. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you bite out. "I'm yours." 

You try to gasp in all the right places, like you're really being fucked for the first time ever. It does actually hurt, because he's bigger than the average guy, but you've had worse. When he's close he pushes your head down to the mattress, twists his fingers into your hair so hard your eyes water and really starts slamming into you like he hates your guts. 

You don't have to endure much at that pace. It's not long before he comes with a low groan and turns still above you, collapsing with his cheek pressed to your shoulder. 

Well damn. You give him a few minutes like that, just to be decent, but you're relieved when he finally clambers off of you, dick slipping out of you, and allows you to pull up your jeans. You sit at the edge of the mattress, peel off the hoodie and toss it at him. 

"I should get going," you tell him, matter-of-factly. No point beating around the bush. 

He doesn't even look at you, probably wracked with guilt or whatever else he's wrestling with. He leaves the room — to get your money, you presume — and you let out a sigh, exhausted already and it's only your first booking of the night. 

Your eyes wander the room again. On the far wall, there's a bunch of photos pinned to a corkboard. You didn't notice those before. You get up to take a closer look 'cause why not — hell, _you're_ curious about Dave now — and your stomach drops to your knees before your brain's even caught up with what's wrong.

It takes you a while to figure it out. There's a bunch of pictures just like the ones pegged to the fishing line running accross the room, only something's different. In some of the pictures Dave doesn't have his shades on and it takes you way too long to figure out why you're so stuck on that. 

Now that you can see his eyes, it changes your perception of his entire face, makes his natural resemblance to someone else absolutely, one-hundred-percent undeniable. 

Your skin crawls. You feel so sick with yourself you might actually gag. 

The door creaks open and you jump, spinning around. You avoid his gaze as he walks towards you. If you look right at him he might be able to tell that you know, that you've somehow figured something out. He thrusts a wad of cash at you, eyes boring into your skull as he wills you to look at him. 

You can't.

You take the money, thank him, hope he doesn't notice you're green and shaking. "I should go," you say again, trying to force your legs to move. 

"You should," he says, and you don't wait around to try to figure out his tone.

You're out of there in ten seconds flat, racing for the front door and fumbling with the open lock before you fling it open and tumble out into the hallway. You all but run for the stairwell, never once looking behind you until you're sure you're far enough away. 


End file.
